The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

23. Big Hands

23

BIG HANDS

Nate

I can’t avoid Hunter any longer. I’ve tried all day. I worked out and talked to Amy. I tried after dinner too. I rounded up my teammates for a drink at the lobby bar, though I ordered water.

His text message—we need to talk —has repeated on a cruel loop all day. Guys only say we need to talk when they’re about to dump you.

Sure, it’s possible—maybe even probable—he meant we need to talk about the wedding news getting out . But after he dropped that awkward I can’t stay at my flat, I haven’t been able to shake the conviction that his talk involved telling me hasta la vista . He might need to stay married to me for appearance’s sake, but he doesn’t want to be with me even for a week.

Maybe he’ll be asleep when I return to the hotel room.

Or better yet, maybe he won’t want to talk anymore.

I hate talking. I hate the bullshit that comes with serving up your guts to someone and then it turns out oops—the guy who’s been accusing you of cheating every time you go on the road is the one banging someone else.

Several someones.

But I can’t put Hunter off any longer. I say goodnight to Jason, Devon, Xavier, and the other Hawks and head to the elevator and take it to fourteen. When I get to the floor, I step out, but then lean against the wall by the elevator banks.

Get over it, man. So what if he’s not into you? It’s a fake marriage anyway.

Except I’d foolishly hoped to steal time with him this week. Before the chapel, before the bet, before I even took a single drink in Vegas, I already liked the guy. I wanted more.

But it’s time to stop stalling and start walking. I head down the hall to my room, unlock the door, then swallow my hurt and go inside.

Hunter is stretched out on the bed in the half-light, his eyes fluttering closed. I kick off my shoes, but as I pad across the room, he stirs, pushes up, and blinks his eyes open.

“Hey,” he mumbles.

“Hi,” I say, halted in my tracks.

We’re both quiet. I stand ten feet from him. He stays on the bed. We are statues. Frozen married men.

What the hell do I say next? I go with a bland, “How was your meeting?”

“Good. Productive. Did you have practice?”

I shake my head. “No. Just worked out, reviewed game video, and then we had a dinner with the press.”

“How was it?”

Are we doing this? Talking about our day? I guess married couples do that.

I cross the room and sit on the couch across from him, perched uncomfortably on the edge of the cushions. “It was good. Yours?”

“Busy,” he says, scratching his jaw.

“Is it good to be home?”

“Great. Real great,” he says, smiling too widely.

The tension between us is so thick you could slice it like a pie.

“Nate.” He says my name thickly, full of regret, and I can’t deal.

I hold up a hand. “It’s fine. I get it. You don’t want to be in this situation either. We only have to fake it while I’m here in London, and we’re both busy this week and it won’t be hard to avoid each other without anything seeming off. Then I’ll go back to San Francisco after the game on Sunday, and you’ll stay here, and we don’t even have to talk to each other. We don’t have to pretend when it’s just you and me here in the room. It’s fine. I swear it’s fine.”

There. I’ve exonerated him.

He stares as if I’m speaking another language, and I need to get away from this man who, in spite of everything, I still want to curl up with.

Hunter winces, but manages a sturdy, “Okay.”

“I’m going to get ready for bed.” I head for the bathroom, wash my face, brush my teeth, and say a prayer to the gods of hot, sexy single men that I won’t be tempted when sharing a bed with my too-handsome husband.

Back in the bedroom, I strip out of my jeans and shirt, and without making eye contact, I tell Hunter the bathroom is his.

“Thanks,” he says curtly, then retreats to the john. Alone, I slide under the covers as the faucet runs.

I turn out the lights on each side of the bed. That’ll make it easier for both of us. While I’m at it, I’ll close my eyes too. Maybe I can sleep through every second of being in this room this week.

C’mon, Sandman, bring it on.

A minute later, I hear the bathroom door open and Hunter’s footsteps approaching. When he reaches the bed, I can’t resist a peek at the beautiful man getting under the covers next to me.

Hunter’s quiet as he lies down, then he whispers, “Good night.”

He sounds sad. I hate that he’s sad. I hate that it’s my fault.

“Hunter,” I say roughly. “I’m sorry I got you into this.”

“Are you kidding me?” He pushes up on one elbow, turns to me.

“I’m sorry about this whole…thing,” I add.

“But it’s my fault,” he says, like he can’t correct me fast enough. “I lost the bet. Or won the bet. Whatever it was.”

“But I insisted on going through with it.” I huff in frustration.

“And I went along with it happily. I was happy the whole night.”

“It’s okay,” I say again, at a loss.

Hunter sits up. “Stop saying that.”

“Saying what?”

“ It’s okay ,” he parrots, annoyed. “You won’t even let me talk.”

Can I botch this any more? “Talking never leads to anything good.”

Hunter drags a hand through his hair then launches into his confession. “You think I kept secrets from you, but I didn’t tell you about my father or the show or anything because I’ve spent my whole life with his lies and bullshit. He eloped with his last wife, and made a big show of it, and it was his fifth marriage, and then there was this whole public thing about his marriage later in the summer, and I don’t want to be remotely like the man for a million reasons. I’ve spent so many years trying to get out of his shadow, and here I went and did the same thing.” He blurts his words the way he did on the plane to Vegas, pausing only for a breath. “And then you were pissed I didn’t tell you who he was,” he goes on.

That’s what he thinks? That I’m frustrated because of his father? “That’s not it at all,” I say firmly.

In the dark room, the moonlight casts shadows over his confused face. “Then, what do you mean?”

“That’s not why I was kind of…shut down.”

“Then why were you shut down then?” Hunter presses gently.

“Because you said at the airport you wanted to talk.” Doesn’t he get it? I want to talk is the kiss of death.

“Right,” he says matter-of-factly, that wrinkle in his brow digging deeper. “Talk about the whole situation. That was all I meant.”

“But then you wanted to stay at your flat…” I don’t even know where I’m going with this anymore.

Hunter groans. “I wanted us to stay at my flat. But Machiavelli had me all twisted up with his plans and his attitude.”

Despite the heavy convo, I smile. “Machiavelli, eh?”

“Well, he is.”

“Vance definitely is.” With some of the tension defused, I sheepishly add, “I thought you meant talk like we need to talk .”

“Well, yeah. In the sense that we needed to sort out the whole ‘we got smashed and hitched and the world knows’ business.”

I close my eyes and flop down against the pillow. I read this so wrong.

“What did you think I meant?” Hunter pushes.

“Nothing,” I grumble, feeling stupid.

But then Hunter straddles my hips, pins my wrists over my head, and gives me a devilish smirk. “ Nate… ”

That feels good with him on me. I open my eyes. “Talk like have a serious conversation about…feelings and shit.”

He laughs. “No. I just meant get on the same page. But you seemed so pissed, so I got all worried that you were mad about, I dunno, Sweet Nothings and me not telling you about my family and my dad and that I worked on the show. I should have said something on the plane when you were going on about it.”

I shake my head. “I’m truly not mad about that.” I sigh, then rip off the painful bandage. “I married my ex quickly. But a few months later, he started getting on my case about how I needed to communicate better. He wanted long talks about everything, then he was checking up on me when I was on the road, calling the hotel to see if I’d checked in, asking where I’d been. A little after that, he started accusing me of cheating.” It hurts, and at the same time, it feels good to tell him the truth.

Hunter lets go of my wrists but nods for me to keep going.

“Then, he wanted to go to couple’s therapy. We did. We worked on our marriage for six fucking months, all through the football season.” Having said that much, I can’t keep the worst part down anymore. “Near the end, he finally admitted he’d cheated on me. He said it had happened once. He asked me to forgive him. I said I didn’t know if I could. But he begged for a few more sessions. Then, at our last session, he and the therapist ambushed me. They sat me down and Oliver told me he’d cheated on me a few different times over the three years we were together, and with a few different men, and now he was having an affair with the shrink and they were in love.”

“Oh, shit,” Hunter says.

“Oliver’s with him now, and he does these videos where he talks about how he and Lon have had to forgive themselves for all their feelings . But he never says what really happened, and I don’t either, because it’s fucking personal.”

“He is a great and absolute twat,” Hunter declares.

It’s a relief he doesn’t resort to the usual platitudes like It’s not your fault or You must feel awful .

“A total twat,” I echo, then let out a deep breath. “Sorry to dump that on you.”

“I get it. And I’m sorry if I seemed secretive on top of wanting to ‘talk,’” he says, sketching air quotes.

I try to make light of my overreaction. “It’s fine. Talking to you isn’t so bad.”

“Good,” he says, sounding happy once again.

Hunter’s given me so much understanding. I need to do the same for him. “I get, too, why you wouldn’t want to say who your dad is. You want to be your own man,” I say. “I do want that,” Hunter says sincerely.

We’re silent for a few seconds and my eyes stray down his body to the waistband of his briefs.

To the outline of his erection?

“Are you…hard?”

Hunter looks at the ridge in his boxer briefs. Then he shrugs, not at all innocently. “Don’t sound so amazed. It’s an environmental hazard around you.”

“Yeah?” My chest warms.

“I’m extremely turned on by you,” he says.

My rain clouds disappear. I lift my hips, letting him feel that I’m getting aroused too. I thread a hand into his thick waves of hair, tug him close to my face. “Come here,” I say.

“Gladly,” he says, and I feel like my body is made of sunshine and sex as I pull him on top of me, my chest hair rubbing against his. Has it been more than twenty-four hours since I kissed him? Probably, with the time change. Feels like forever. “Been too long since I touched you,” I murmur.

“I’ve been dying,” he says, all husky.

I misread him so badly. I need this so much. “Kiss me,” I whisper.

“Anytime,” says the man I drunk-married.

He seals his mouth to mine. I’m stone-cold sober, and he tastes spectacular—a little minty, all fresh, and so hungry.

I take a tour of his lips, spend my sweet time saying hello again .

My hands rope tighter into his hair, and I tug him closer. He moves with me, capturing my hands this time, curling our fingers together. He’s got me pinned, and yet I’m kissing him, and the whole thing is mind-bogglingly good. I don’t know who’s leading and who’s following, and I don’t care.

Hunter grinds against me, kissing me with as much fervor and heat as I give him. But soon, I need more. My body’s dying for it. More contact, more connection.

I easily push free of his hands so I can move mine down his body. This is what I want. To touch Hunter everywhere. My palms roam along his firm back, muscled and toned, then to his ass. I cup his cheeks and squeeze.

“Mmm. This ass,” I murmur against his lips, breaking the kiss.

He pushes up, bracing on his palms on the mattress on either side of my head. His eyes flood with desire as he gives a long, heated nod. “Do that again.”

I squeeze harder, groaning louder.

“Oh, god,” he grunts.

I just smile as I spread my hands over the globes of his ass.

“You have really big hands,” he says, a low heated intensity in his voice.

“Never been praised in bed for my big hands,” I murmur, then give him another firm squeeze.

“Oh you should be, Nate. You fucking should be,” he says, his eyes floating closed.

I let my fingers do the talking, sliding under his boxers, exploring his smooth ass, dipping lower, then lower still, till I push one against his entrance.

We both groan.

His eyes fly open.

I’m caught in a vortex of lust and desire so strong, so potent I don’t ever want to escape from it. I want this moment to last forever—Hunter gazing down at me with dark, dirty deeds in his brown eyes.

“Fuck me,” he demands, right as I say, “I want to fuck you now.”

Then we’re laughing, and kissing hard and passionately and, most importantly, taking off all this annoying underwear.

I push down his boxer briefs then he scrambles to sit up and tug mine off. I savor the sight of him—this gorgeous man who wants me as much as I want him.

It’s almost too much to bear. I flip him to his back, climb over him, and grab my dick. I stroke it once then let go to stroke his.

I blow out a long, horny breath. “I want to make your first time so good for you.”

“Everything’s good for me,” he says, all dreamy, and yeah, I know he wants to sleep with me.

But I know, too, that sex can hurt.

First times can hurt.

I slow the pace. “But how do you want me?”

Hunter shrugs, open and vulnerable. “I don’t know, Nate.”

I take his confession and I run with it. “That’s okay. Because I know how to make it good for you.”

“Yeah?”

This is such a privilege. “Yeah, I do,” I say as I kiss his cheek. He turns with me, letting me lavish his jawline with soft and hungry kisses while I brush my beard against his face. “I’m going to open you up for me, then you’re going to straddle me and ride my dick, nice and slow. You’re going to take your time, and I’m going to make you feel fucking incredible. And if anything hurts, we’ll stop or change or whatever you need. How does that sound?”

He groans, like he’s this close to coming. “Fucking amazing. And I need it to start right now.”

As I grab the supplies, I’m not sure which of us wants this more. But I am sure this is how sex should be.